Poetry
by sparrowlove
Summary: House writes a stupid poem, and a not so stupid poem. Inspired by The Cure's song Just Like Heaven. HouseCuddy.


"_**Why are you so far away?" she said.**_

"_**Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?**_

_**That I'm in love with you..."**_

House had a secret that only Cuddy knew. It wasn't a secret about something traumatizing or illegal, or even particularly embarrassing, although the idea of a guy writing poetry in his free time in college could be considered more embarrassing to some people than it was to Cuddy. It wasn't bad poetry either, Cuddy thought. Not too sappy, or depressing, or faux profound, as a young writer's poetry often is. It was more like a song without the music, which made sense since it was written by House, the man who owned a million records, now probably replaced, Cuddy imagined, by a million cds.

Anyway, Cuddy didn't know if House even still wrote poetry. She hadn't seen any since college. She didn't even know what made her think of it. She didn't again for about a month. One morning, she noticed that her coffee cup had been moved from its usual place at the edge of her desk. When she went to pick it up, she found a note underneath.

"_My leg hurts badly._

_I need more Vicodin now._

_Or I will not work._"

Cuddy picked up the note and walked to House's office. "What is this?" She asked, annoyed.

"Haiku," House replied, not looking up from his videogame.

"What?" 

"Three lines. Five syllables, then seven syllables..."

"Yes, I know what a haiku is," Cuddy interrupted. "Why is it on my desk?"

"I figured it would be more meaningful than a limerick." House paused. "There once was a girl from Nantucket..."

"Enough," Cuddy said. She handed House a folder. "Case. Take it and I'll give you Vicodin."

House leered. "Solve it and you'll give me..." Cuddy left the room, slamming the door behind her. Back in her office, she slumped down at her desk and put her head in her hands.

She remembered those times in college (oh yes, there was more than the one time. Why House claimed it was just a one night stand is something Cuddy could never figure out, though she appreciated the inaccuracy when he felt the need to blurt it out around co-workers, patients, etc.). Even at his best, House could never have been _a_ Romantic. But he was capable of being romantic. And that was fine with Cuddy; she didn't mind the snark as long as it was balanced out with the happiness. They were never actually together, officially, so they never actually broke up, officially. They just ended up as friends instead of lovers. Then Stacy happened, and Cuddy was glad that House had found someone. Then the leg happened, and Stacy had left. And House had changed. The House that Cuddy (and Stacy) knew was gone, because House thought it was better to be an angry shell than a vulnerable man.

Sometimes Cuddy didn't even believe that the House of twenty years ago and the House of today were the same person, like when he yelled (_It's a good thing you failed to become a mother because you'd suck at it_)sometimes. But sometimes (_You want someone you can trust. _Someone like you?_ Someone you like_) she knew he was still in there. And, Cuddy would have said with a sigh, had she been able to admit it out loud, she still loved _that_ House.

Maybe the haiku was a sign of a change. Vicodin wasn't "her" House, but poetry? Maybe. Cuddy allowed herself a small smile as she walked to the pharmacy.

_**Daylight licked me into shape.**_

_**I must have been asleep for days.**_

_**And moving lips to breathe her name**_

_**I opened up my eyes...**_

House wasn't sure why he wrote the poem. It would've been just as easy to ask verbally for his pain pills. It wasn't even a good poem, he thought, annoyed. If he was going to break out the poetry, couldn't he have given her the one he called "Ode to a Massive Bosom," the one he figured was a surefire way to make her blush, preferably in front of the rest of the staff. Or another one? Not the one he had written one day after Cuddy couldn't help but smile at one of his inane insults; of course, he couldn't show her that one, ever. But something better than

"_My leg hurts badly._

_I need more Vicodin now._

_Or I will not work._"

Then House shook the thoughts out of his head and a Vicodin out of the freshly filled bottle. Poetry was for high school art students. Just goddamn stupid.

There was no poetry for a week weeks after House had these thoughts in his mind. Then, one day, House solved a particularly difficult case. He was so buzzed from the adrenaline that he couldn't even feel the pain in his leg, though he had only taken a single Vicodin that day. This made him do something that he would normally consider to be stupid.

"_I didn't know what to say_

_Then. And I don't now._

_Not to you, or me. _

_Mostly you._

_But I'm closer to knowing. _

_I'm closer to knowing,_

_I hope."_

Still holding the paper, Cuddy looked up at House, who was leaning against the door frame. "What is this?"

"Voodoo curse."

"Seriously."

"Poem."

"What's the punch line?"

"That I worked on it for hours and it still sucks."

"Seriously."

"No, that was the truth," House replied, shrugging. Maybe Cuddy had a bit of an adrenaline high that day as well, because she dashed across the office to House when he said that, pushing him against the doorframe and kissing him on the lips. "Ow," House yelped, dropping his cane to grab his leg, which Cuddy had pressed against the wall with her own leg. Simultaneously, he put an arm around her neck and a hand on the back of her head.

"Sorry," Cuddy murmured.

"It's ok," House said, and pulled her to him.

_**You**_

_**Soft and only**_

_**You**_

_**Lost and lonely**_

_**You**_

_**Just like heaven.**_


End file.
